


Duet

by theherocomplex



Series: Distant Shores and Voices [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Pining, Romance, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5092118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris, Hawke, a broken ankle -- and a long-awaited tipping point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duet

It is the most unforgiving winter in Fenris' memory — paltry thing that it is — when the breaking point is finally reached. There has been so little that he has wanted to hold with both hands, so little that he trusts himself to ask for, and in the end all he receives is a _little_ thing, an ember to hold in two cupped palms. 

It is enough. It is a beginning. 

*** 

The winter has warped the Hanged Man's door; when Fenris tries to pull it shut behind him, the bent wood half-closes, but a gust of wind cuts through the opening, sending a last burst of ice and rain to cover his cloak and tangle his hair. He gives the door a yank, enough to cut off the worst of the wind, then ducks through the curtain hanging in the doorway. 

If he had only come this night for a game or two of Wicked Grace, he would have been sorely disappointed. Only the hardiest of souls would brave such cold and rain for what few delights the Hanged Man can boast, and the common room is nearly deserted. Those that have faced the weather are gathered around the fire, jostling for the places closest to the flames. 

Fenris sees Isabela, the fire glinting warm on her jewelry; when she spies him coming toward her, she winks, and makes room for him on her bench. 

"Hello, you," she says, leaning into him for a brief moment before pulling away with a grimace. "Oh, you're _freezing_. Go buy yourself some cider and get warm." 

"And let me guess," Fenris replies, standing once more as he weighs the coins in his pocket. "You wouldn't mind one either?" 

"Oh no, no cider for me." She waves him toward the bar. "Another ale, though, would be lovely." 

He shakes his head, but he has the coin, and nothing better to spend it on. His cider — crisp and tart, spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon — is dearer than the ale, but Fenris allows himself the indulgence. After a moment's thought, he orders bread and cheese as well, for his luncheon was light, and many hours ago, all in the name of saving his coin for Wicked Grace and ale and baked apples. 

Isabel coos with delight over his laden tray, and plucks a slice of apple with nimble fingers before Fenris can rescue the rest of his food. "What?" she says, through a full mouth. "I'll pay you back." 

"Unlikely." But Fenris does not argue or glare when she steals a piece of cheese. Isabela has, after all, given him the seat right at the fire's edge. 

He soaks in the warmth as he eats, flexing his fingers to ease out the numb chill. The conversation flows over and around him, paying him no mind at all, and Fenris lets the voices blend until the words are an indistinct blur. He simply eats, and warms, and tries to ignore the part of his mind that is listening for the first warning note in someone's voice, and calculating where best to place himself in a fight. 

At least, he muses, wiping his fingers on a cloth, it is only _part_ of him that is so watchful now. That part of him is still alert enough to know the door is opening before anyone else does, and so he is the first to see Sebastian push through the curtain, a white-faced Hawke in his arms.

"Maker," Sebastian says, panting. "Is Anders here? No? Hawke slipped on some ice, and I don't like the look of her ankle."

"I'm right here, Sebastian," Hawke murmurs. Her eyes are shut tight, her mouth pinched to a thin, trembling line. "And it's not as bad as all that." 

Fenris is on his feet before Sebastian finishes speaking. His legs cover the distance in two strides. "The mage is not here," he says to Sebastian, as the man eases Hawke into his arms. "I believe he is at —" 

Sebastian is already out the door, snow swirling in his wake. 

"Really," says Hawke hoarsely, her eyes still shut. "I'm fine." Her head lolls against his shoulder; this close, Fenris can hear the ragged edge of every breath. 

"You will forgive me if I do not believe you," he says, quietly. 

She laughs. "I'll do my best," she replies, as he carries her toward warmth and light. 

Those gathered by the fire scatter to make room: Isabela clears the plates and mugs to another table, Varric throws hiscloak over the scarred wood, and folds Isabela's into a pillow. For his part, Fenris moves as deliberately as possible, cursing to himself when Hawke gasps as he gently lays her on the table

"Did Sebastian really go running off into the storm?" she says, through a gasp as her legs come to rest on the table. "Oh, Maker's balls, it's not that bad."

"You are too late to stop him," Fenris tells her. "You cannot walk, Hawke. Better he gets the mage and that you are cared for." 

She sighs, then winces as she tries to shift. Her cheeks are white, as is the skin around her mouth, and her fingers scratch miserably at the table. "All right," she says, when her color begins to return. "If you insist." 

Fenris does insist, though he does not do so out loud. He lingers instead, unsure of what to say or offer, but he does not lie to himself, and pretend that he is immune to the warmth of Hawke's body. There would be no point. He has dreamed of reaching out in the night and finding not the edge of his bed, but Hawke's soft curves and sleepy smile. No doubt he will dream of that tonight — how could he not, when her scent already clings to him? 

Foolish thoughts. But he has long been a fool for this woman, and he cannot change that, would not change that, for the world. 

"So, Hawke." Varric appears out of nowhere to help Hawke sit up, all while shoving a mug of cider into her hands. "We're waiting to hear the whole story. Was it bandits?" 

Hawke frowns at the cider, cradling it close to her chest. From where he stands, Fenris can sees the scraped-raw edges of her palms, her torn knuckles, and the new rips in her cloak, and it stirs something heady in him, protectiveness and exasperation and want, all at once. He wants to kiss her knuckles, wrap his own cloak around her — something, anything, to heal these little hurts, or at least make them no longer matter. 

He chooses instead to finish the last of his own cider, avoiding Isabela's too-knowing gaze. 

"It was an accident," says Hawke at last. "I swear, Varric. I slipped on some ice. Nothing exciting. Nothing for your _book_ ," she adds pointedly, raising an eyebrow at the dwarf. "Unless you want to write about me falling on my ass in Lowtown." 

"I'm sure there's an audience for that, sweet thing." Isabela kneels and rolls Hawke's skirts up past her knees. Fenris' hand tightens on his mug when he sees the bruised and broken skin, and the harsh cant of her ankle. Hawke winces as Isabela brushes her ankle with her fingertips, but does not make a sound. "Oh, it's definitely broken. You managed quite a fall, Hawke." 

"Thank you, Isabela," says Hawke through gritted teeth. "Now, if you're not too busy, would you get me something a bit stronger than cider, please?" 

"I will," Fenris says, glad of the excuse to turn his back on Varric's too-wise gaze and Isabela's smirks.  

*** 

After Anders takes Hawke to Varric's rooms, Fenris counts out a half-hour silently before he makes his way up the stairs. Isabel sees him, and so does Varric, but everyone else is distracted by Varric's retelling of Hawke's reaction to meeting the Arishok — featuring considerably more swearing than Fenris remembers — so he ascends the stairs in relative peace.  

When Fenris enters Varric's rooms, he finds Anders washing his hands in a basin, and smiling at Hawke as she takes one tentative step, and then another. A few damp strands of hair have escaped her braid to curl around her cheeks, and Fenris imagines what they would feel like between his fingers before he notices Anders watching him, and schools his features to careful neutrality again. 

"Thank you, Anders," says Hawke, grinning. "I can't believe Sebastian went to get you in this weather — not that I'm not grateful, but it could have waited till morning." 

"It really couldn't have," Anders replies lightly, with a quick glance in Fenris' direction. "That was a truly impressive fracture, Hawke." He flicks the last of the water from his fingers. "And you know I'm always happy to help a friend. Besides, I want to try to win back some of my money from Isabela." 

Fenris scoffs, unable to help himself. "I wish you luck, in that case," he says. 

Hawke snickers. "I'm with Fenris on this, Anders. Better to cut your losses now." She balances on one foot and rotates her bad ankle. "Should it be a little sore, still?" 

"It will be for a few days, so don't overtax yourself." Anders points a finger at her, mock-stern. "And stay _off_ your feet as much as possible. I'll be quite put out with you if I have to heal you again because you didn't listen." 

Hawke sticks her tongue out at him.

Anders brushes past Fenris with a put-upon sigh, heading for the common room. "Off your feet, Hawke!" he calls.

Fenris barely hears him go down the stairs. He and Hawke are alone, as they have been a hundred times or more, but the curves of her body still echo against his own, and yes, he can smell her, the smell of the herbs she bathes with and the milk-sweet scent of her skin. His mouth is dry, with want so sharp it is almost need, but he cannot speak, cannot even say her name. 

"Well, this wasn't how I planned to spend my evening," she says, leaning against Varric's table with a smile. "Thank you, Fenris. I appreciate —" 

"It was nothing," he interrupts, voice rough. "Sebastian was the one who fetched the healer." 

"I'll thank him the next time I see him, and buy him a drink too," she says, lifting a small cloth bag from Varric's table and making a pleased _ah!_ when she peers inside. "He might not drink it, but I can at least make the offer." 

"He will probably be content with your thanks, and the knowledge of a kind deed done." Fenris watches her fingers, knowing that if he meets her gaze, he will do something — something foolish, something needful, something he has only dared to dream. 

Hawke plucks a handful of lemon sweets from the bag. "He's too good for us." A pause as she pops the candy into her mouth and cracks it between her teeth. "Well, for most of us. You and Aveline, you're a different story." 

"Did you just compare me to —" Fenris shakes his head, wondering if perhaps Hawke has struck hers. "You do not mean —" 

"I meant what I said." He hears Hawke push away from the table, and then her unsteady step toward him. "I think you are —" From the corner of his eyes, Fenris sees Hawke make an abrupt, frustrated gesture with both hands. "Nevermind. But — Fenris?" 

He looks up then, and drinks in her face: full, pink cheeks, eyes as blue and hot as a summer sky, the straight line of her nose. _Hawke_ , he thinks, a breath away from reaching out to her. 

"Thank you," she says, and smiles, unsure and impossibly sweet. 

The smile undoes him. Fenris takes a step, and then a second and a third, conscious all the while of a feeling like falling from a great height, arms spread to catch the air and laughing. 

Varric's rooms are not large; three steps take him within reach of Hawke, close enough to see her chest rise with a surprised breath as he touches a single loose curl of her hair. She watches him, not moving, pink cheeks turning red with a flush that moves down her neck and chest, to disappear under her tunic. 

"Fenris?" she whispers, three years of question bound up in his name. 

What is there to say? What words could he find that could possibly come close to the truth: that he has taken back his life, and would share it with her? 

There are no words. There is nothing but Hawke, watching him with lips parted and wide eyes.

It is the easiest thing in the world to curl his hand around the back of her neck — gently, ever so gently — and to trace the line of her jaw with his thumb. Hawke's eyes flutter closed, and she bites her lip. She tilts her head into his hand, her neck arching into his touch like a cat's, and sighs. 

"Fenris," she whispers once more. "I —" She bites her lip again as Fenris pauses, measuring his breaths, waiting for her word, as her pulse leaps against the palm of his hand. And then — then she smiles, wicked and merry, and says, _"Please._ "

This is why he is lost, this is why he will never leave her: Hawke is many things, but she is not a liar, and she will never force his hand. 

And she loves him. Oh, she _loves_ him. That is the thought ringing through Fenris' head as he rests his forehead against hers, smelling the lemon and sugar on her breath, and as Hawke rests her hands on his chest as lightly as bird claws. Hawke loves him; he loves her. 

It cannot be that simple. Nothing ever is. But tonight, Fenris can pretend it is. For one moment, his world can be as pure as fire or as true as the sea, and it will be because of Hawke. 

So he bends his head, his hand still cupping her neck, and kisses her. 

Hawke makes a little noise against his mouth, her hands fist against his chest. But she kisses him back, slowly, shyly, as if she can't quite believe it, warming under him with every second, pliant and warmed by the fire. She tastes of lemon and sugar, and Fenris presses into the kiss, hungry for her touch as he has been for no food in his life, more thirsty for her than he has ever been for water. He would live in this moment and this kiss if he could, with nothing more urgent than the hot flicker of Hawke's tongue against his own. 

He pulls her to his chest with his free hand, trying to support her weight in care for her ankle, but it is a distant concern, drowned out by his own selfish need. If she is in pain, she gives no sign, but tries to push herself closer, gasping as his teeth brush her lower lip, a sound that pierces Fenris as surely as a knife. 

They part to a hand's-breadth, their breath mingled and foreheads resting together. She is so close her eyelashes brush his cheek, and oh, Fenris is damned now, for it is impossible to think it will end here, with this one kiss. There will be more, in other, better rooms, where no spying eyes can find them. But not tonight, not now. They must let go, if only for a few hours — but he cannot, not yet. 

Hawke leans forward, her mouth almost touching his, when someone clears their throat at the door. 

"I thought," drawls Anders, "that I told you to stay _off_ your feet, Hawke. Not be _swept_ off them." 

Fenris freezes, his temper flaring hot and bitter in his chest — how _dare_ Anders, how _dare_ he — but Hawke presses a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Was that a pun, Anders?" she asks, her breathless voice sending a wave of heated need through Fenris once more. "Varric would be ashamed of you for abusing words so badly." 

"Not that Varric is innocent in that regard," Fenris mutters. Hawke ducks her head and laughs, quietly, into his shoulder. 

"Well," says Anders, all exasperation. "I think Hawke should _really_ get some rest now, if you two are quite finished?"  

"Oh, I don't know," says Hawke. She cuts an arch look up at Fenris, but he sees the hopeful cast of her mouth, and strokes her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Are we finished, Fenris?" 

_No_ , he thinks, tucking her hair behind her ear. _We are not._

 


End file.
